


Hope

by missbeizy



Category: Glee
Genre: AU, Anal Fingering, Blow Jobs, F/M, Hand Jobs, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Pseudo-Incest, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-07
Updated: 2015-01-07
Packaged: 2018-03-06 11:20:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3132560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missbeizy/pseuds/missbeizy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An AU where only opposite-sex relationships are accepted by society.  Orphans in the foster care program are institutionally instructed to date in their teens with the goal of being married at age eighteen.  Kurt is dating Brittany when his foster family “adopts” Blaine, who is paired up shortly after with Santana.  Brittany and Santana are more interested in each other than the boys, and the boys are more interested in each other than the girls, but things get complicated when Blaine asks Kurt to “practice” intimacy so that they might do better with the girls.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hope

**Author's Note:**

> The Kurt/Brittany and Blaine/Santana interaction in the story goes about as far as making out/grinding and none of the involved parties are heterosexual, so it's kind of a farce.

Kurt only risks introducing himself the day that Blaine moves into the house because he hears the soundtrack to _Rent_ playing in his new foster “brother's” room. 

It's been well over a year since the last boy that his host family had adopted had lived here, and he had been a nightmare for both their “parents” and Kurt: a sloppy, loud, rude teenager with a chip on his shoulder and something to prove, though what exactly that had been Kurt had never quite figured out. So he is understandably wary. But—show tunes. This boy has to be, at the very least, more musically evolved, and therefore more on Kurt's level.

And besides, at seventeen Kurt is bolder and more confident than he had been at sixteen. He can do this. He's better prepared, now that he has some experience. It's always awkward the first few months, especially after that first enforced double date that he knows must be coming if his host family had decided to adopt another boy. Orphans like himself and Blaine always end up getting adopted by the more strict families (their hesitance to court girls at a younger age usually gets them in trouble, and he'd already overheard his parents saying that Blaine is like him in that way) who do it as much for the annual stipend and the tax break as they do for the “good work” mark in their morality column.

Kurt has been courting Brittany S. Pierce for four months, and he has to admit that she's an improvement over the last two girls that he had been told to get to know. She's unique and a little wild, but Kurt is possessed of the firm belief that she might also be a genius. She's pretty, too, and the fact that he seems to like truly like her has raised her worth in Kurt's family's eyes. All in all, life has been easier since Brittany, and for that Kurt is grateful.

“Come in,” Blaine calls, when Kurt knocks.

Kurt enters. 

The room looks mostly the same as it had before, but there are open boxes everywhere, and the source of the music is a well-loved laptop that his last foster brother would never have maintained.

Blaine Anderson is an inch or two shorter than him. He has a carefully sculpted helmet of hair that Kurt can't help but find instantly endearing—he must care an awful lot about his appearance to put that much effort into gel application. Kurt is sure that that hairdo would withstand nuclear fallout. His clothes are neat and preppy, almost to the point of cliché—they're like something out of one of the old movies that Kurt is so fond of. He isn't quite sure what the make of the whole visual package, but he knows that he likes it, and when Blaine smiles at him and stands and reaches for his hand, he feels a rush zing along the nerve endings in his hand and arm that makes his skin go bumpy and his heart skip a beat.

“You must be Kurt,” Blaine says, pumping his hand. “I was going to introduce myself at dinner. You beat me to it.”

“I hope I'm not interrupting,” Kurt says, recalling his manners.

“Oh, not at all. I was just wondering how I'm going to make that closet space useable, is all.” Blaine leads him over to the other side of the room. 

“James didn't exactly leave it in the best condition, I'm sure.”

“I don't need much,” Blaine says, obviously rushing to explain, not wanting Kurt to think that he's a snob. “But it's a little less than I'm used to.”

“I may have some spare organizational shelves,” Kurt says. He's surprised to be able to share the things that he holds so domestically vital—it had never occurred to him that Blaine might be dramatically more like him than James had been.

“Oh, wow, that would be amazing. Thank you.”

Blaine sits on the end of the bed, and Kurt sits in his desk chair. There's a moment of contemplative and comfortable silence—Kurt can tell that the polite moment of greeting is bleeding, as it usually does, into that awkward moment of reality when they both recall why they are here. He's had this conversation with all three of his previous foster brothers, to varying degrees of length and tone.

“How long have you lived here?” Blaine asks. “If you don't mind me asking.”

“Two years.”

“And um, are you—attached?”

Kurt smiles politely. “Uh, yes. For four months now.”

“Going well?”

“Actually, yeah,” he says. “I had a few—um, you know. It just didn't work out.”

“Oh, I know,” Blaine says, smiling, with none too little self-deprecation. “Mine have all been duds. That's why I'm here.”

“Fresh dating pool?”

“Mostly just—well, no. My host family gave me a certain number of tries. I used them all. This—this family was the first one to respond to my listing after that so, here I am.”

Kurt frowns. That's harsh, even for their circumstances. Usually, well-behaved fosters are allowed to attempt to date all the way up to their eighteenth birthdays without fuss. They're forced to make a choice of who to marry and settle down with, then, of course, but re-homing isn't common unless behavioral issues are the source of the problem. Blaine can't be much older than he is, and he seems like a nice person.

“That's rough,” Kurt says. “I'm sorry.” He smiles. “I, um, I liked your music. That's why I knocked.”

Blaine's cheeks go red, and he lets out a breathy noise. “Really? Wow. That makes me feel better already. Honestly. I've never had a foster brother who cared for musicals or anything.”

Kurt goes warm down the back of his neck. He's felt like this before, but it had been a long time ago, after his parents had passed but before he'd been matriculated into the foster system, back when he'd been able to socialize at public school with less attention paid to his behavior. He'd had friends, then, friends who had accepted him for the things that had made him him, whether they seemed odd or not. Now he attends a private school for orphans specifically designed for courting and domestic settlement training, and everything that he does and says is closely observed. He doesn't trust any of his classmates with the things that make him smile and sigh in the privacy of his home, and a single step or comment out of line would make his life unbearable, both at school and at home, so he sort of just gets by, and hopes that one day he'll feel all of the things that they expect him to feel.

The silence has gone on for too long, so Kurt clears his throat. “Dinner's at six. It's my turn to cook. And then we can see about those shelves?”

“Great,” Blaine says, and walks him to the door.

Kurt smiles. “I think you'll get settled just fine. Really.”

 

*

 

When Kurt was first “adopted”, he'd wanted to hate his foster family. He'd wanted them to be awful people. That would have made it easy. 

Before them, he'd been bounced around from temporary placement to temporary placement, never having much luck with settling, and it was after his third or fourth such experience that the first offer for long term fostering had come through the system. His case worker, an older gentleman who had been a “success story” of the local foster house himself and had spent the last twenty years placing youths as he had been placed, had been excited for him. And when he'd put the Morales' submission in front of him, Kurt had had no choice but to accept—it was rare for long term placements to occur once you had been in more than two or three temporary ones, and he'd felt grateful and angry at the same time, relieved but also ready to loathe these people on principle.

It had been difficult to get heated about mid-level indifference, though. He'd realized early on that he wasn't going to be abused or jailed. The Morales were by the book but accepting, provided for him, fed him well, and asked that he shoulder only the most basic of domestic responsibilities. He had as much freedom as any foster of his kind and age, and they were good enough to shrug off his “stranger” habits and hobbies. He could never quite be himself, of course, but that was okay in a world where most orphans were expected to be living, breathing robots and tow the line.

He has to admit, though, that it hurts to watch Blaine try to make an impression. The first few weeks Blaine makes every effort to dazzle their parents—he does extra chores, goes overboard when it's his turn to cook, is scrupulously neat, and even attempts to socialize outside of the normal “family time”. Pat and Dom smile and say kind things, but they never crack enough to allow Blaine much satisfaction. Kurt watches Blaine's enthusiasm dim as the days pass with no sign of this changing.

Finally, one night after they have finished arranging Blaine's room to both of their satisfactions, Kurt decides to offer him some comfort.

“Hey,” he says, tapping a pen against his spiral notebook. “They're not bad. I mean...they're strict. But they're not bad. I know they aren't—expressive, or—I just want you to know that it isn't you.”

Blaine's mouth squirms before he forces it into a pained smile. “I was hoping for more, I guess.”

Kurt pats his forearm. “Sometimes, it can be a good thing. They don't chaperone our dates. They're lenient about curfew, and music, and clothes. They don't smother.”

“I know, and that's better—I mean, all of that is so much better than my last placement.” Blaine sighs, and then smiles, more naturally. “And you're here, which is—you're pretty awesome.” He stares a moment too long. Kurt swallows. “So, we're going to Breadstix with Brittany and Santana this weekend.”

Their parents had let them know about the date at dinner last night. Kurt has never met Santana, but Brittany seems to think she's great, so he has high hopes for the evening. They'll eat and then take a walk through a park that's designated for courtship dates, and hopefully snag a moment or two of alone time that will allow them to “deepen their connection”. Kurt's kind of tired of restarting with a new girl every few months—he likes Brittany, and he thinks that how he feels for her is about as intense as it's ever going to get. If Blaine hits it off with Santana, it could be fun—the four of them might turn out to be the best of friends. They could do worse.

Group dating is a good way to get fosters to do what the powers that be want them to do. It allows relaxed socializing outside of school, allows orphan boys and girls to mix freely, and makes the awkwardness of assigned dating easier. Fosters who group date have higher rates of young marriage, so it doesn't surprise Kurt that his host family is always trying to keep at least two or three fosters in the house—the sooner fosters settle down, get jobs, and have kids, the sooner their foster families get paid their bonuses.

Kurt looks around Blaine's now-cozy bedroom. It's not entirely to his taste—Blaine likes sports and activities that he has no interest in, he's more on the stereotypically masculine side of interior design, and his color scheme would never compliment Kurt's complexion. But it's lovely in its own way, neat and reflective of its occupant. In just a few short weeks Blaine is as settled as any foster that this house has ever seen, aside from Kurt, and Kurt is pleased.

“We'll have fun, I promise,” he says, and Blaine tries to smile for him, yet again.

 

*

 

“Holy crap, like, the best second breakfast joke just assaulted my mind,” is the first thing that Santana Lopez says to Blaine, who balks at the humor and frowns at Kurt.

Kurt internally smacks his hand to his forehead. He gives Brittany, whose hand he's holding, a look, and Brittany stops smacking her gum long enough to whisper, “What? Is my hair pink again?”

Blaine's panicked expression is priceless. Kurt can't decide whether to giggle until he cries or cry until he giggles.

“Brit, could you get us a table?” he asks, letting go of her hand.

Santana tosses Kurt and Blaine a saucy wink, waggles her fingers at them, hooks her pinky around Brittany's and disappears into the restaurant.

“Oh my god, what did I do?” Blaine asks.

Kurt laughs. “Uh, well, I have to be honest, I've never met Santana, so I can't comment there, but Brittany is—well, she's kind of special. Just go with it. She's sweet, and actually a great person.”

“Santana is...interesting.”

All at once, Kurt is not sure if his fantasy of the four of them hitting it off is likely, but he has hope—they've hardly spoken. It's too soon to tell.

“She's probably just nervous. Give it some time.”

Kurt is fairly certain that Santana is at least acting out partly in defense. She makes it clear from the start that she's only doing this because it's her last chance at a match (she's turning eighteen soon) and her fosters have made it clear that they won't keep her after she reaches legal age if she doesn't show some sign of successfully dating. The only options for unattached fosters after eighteen is the hope that their families will be kind enough to keep them as house guests (or adopted family, if the bond is strong enough), otherwise they're turned out into work programs that usually lead them into poverty and short life spans outside of the boundaries of normal society.

Neither Kurt nor Blaine can hold a grudge against Santana's behavior once they're aware of her situation. Brittany practically glows with sympathy and interest, makes Santana the center of her attention, and once her focus is fixed, there's no shifting it. Kurt feels a tiny bit jealous, but he lets it go because he feels guilty, as well. Who is he to judge? Blaine, on the other hand, doesn't seem to know what to do. He keeps trying to capture Santana's attention—compliment her dress and her hair and get her to talk about where she comes from and what she likes about school—and failing miserably.

When they arrive at the date park, though, Santana seems to have relaxed a little. She tugs Blaine's hand, gives him an even smile, and says, “You're okay, shortstack. Just give me my space, okay? Okay.” She disappears with Brittany ahead of them on the walking path.

Blaine exhales audibly. “Well. That...did not go the way that I wanted it to.”

“As first dates go, not spectacular, huh?”

“I've had worse, actually, but...I mean, wow, she's gorgeous.” He smiles. “Brittany is, too. And you're right. She's weird, but the good kind of weird. I guess we're pretty lucky, huh? I'm going to try and be positive. This is only the first date, after all.”

Kurt keeps his steps even and measured. Blaine walks about half a stride behind his. “I guess we are.”

He doesn't allow himself to voice what he usually thinks but never has anyone to share with anyway: they are in no way lucky, not him, not Blaine, and not Brittany or Santana. It's all a farce.

He excuses himself to walk ahead with Brittany about halfway through the park. 

“Tell me something new,” he says to her, as he always does.

She happily talks about the classes that she can't pass for reasons she can't discern, her crime lord cat, and her foster family, weaving reality with fantasy in ways that make Kurt smile and laugh. He adores her, and he doesn't regret for one second being paired up with her, even though he knows that so much of what they share is the result of trying very hard and not natural chemistry. She's the only girl that he's ever felt comfortable around. He likes the way that she holds his hand as if she's sure of herself, her fingers wrapped tightly around his.

He only hopes that Santana and Blaine are doing half as well.

“You look good,” she says, as they near the end of their walk. “Like, shiny.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. You're not putting duck fat in your lotion, still, you know I told you that the ducks haven't given their permission yet, and it's not ethical.”

He laughs. “No, Brit. No duck fat.”

She smiles, pulls on his wrists and presses him into a tree that they're passing. “Kiss?”

Kurt holds his breath. It always feels strange, letting their lips touch, but he wants to want to, so he nods, and kind of lets her take over, as he always does.

“You're so pretty,” she says, in between soft kisses that make his face burn and his muscles tense.

When Santana and Blaine catch up with them, Blaine looks ruffled—his hair dented and his blazer hastily re-buttoned—and Kurt is sure that Santana had made a move, too. It feels strange, knowing that, and he isn't sure why. 

After they drive the girls home, Kurt leaves the car in park in the driveway.

“Are you okay?” he asks Blaine.

“Um,” Blaine says, breathing unevenly. “We kind of made out?”

“Geez,” Kurt says, “that was fast. It took me and Brit weeks to even kiss. I mean, not for lack of her trying, but...I wasn't ready.”

“Oh, god, you don't think I'm, like, fast, do you?” Blaine asks. He looks like a ripe tomato about to pop. Kurt feels bad for teasing him, even unintentionally.

“Crap, no, of course not. Did she...did she start it?”

“She asked and I said yes, but I didn't—I didn't think she meant—wow.” He clears his throat.

“If you aren't ready, you should tell her next time.”

“I—yeah. Yeah, I need to think about it, I guess.”

It's weird: Kurt always thought that he was pretty uptight about making out and touching and being touched and all, but Blaine seems to be even more jarred by the prospect. When they say goodnight at home, he pats Blaine's shoulder as he always does now.

“If you need to talk about, um, girl stuff, you can talk to me, you know? I don't have much experience, but Brit has been patient, and I guess I'm okay with it, now.”

Blaine's mouth opens and closes twice before his eyelids begin fluttering over those lovely hazel eyes. “Th-thanks. That's nice of you.”

 

*

 

The problem is, he isn't sure if he was quite telling the truth by phrasing it the way that he had. 

He's no expert on girls—and he's far from okay with where his relationship with Brittany is heading. Her kisses make him nervous, stomach flutters and shaking muscles, but not in an excited way. He doesn't particularly want to touch her back, doesn't find the shape or feel of her intriguing. When he tries to...to do _that_ while thinking of her, nothing happens. It's only when he lets his fantasies spiral into nameless and faceless blurs that he manages to get anywhere, and it still feels forced. It's easy enough to finish, given time and persistence—he is a seventeen year old boy, after all—but the physical act never lines up with any deeper component. This leaves him feeling out of sorts and a little empty.

He's sure that there has to be more to foreplay and sex, otherwise why would so many kids at school brag about sneaking off to “do it” and “get to” “bases”, smug and satisfied and flushed from their confessions?

Still, he tries. He thinks about that night at the park, the tree bark rough against his back, Brittany's fingers like steel around his jaw, her tongue playing in and out of his mouth, her long dancer's body rubbing up against his chest and thighs. The fantasy keeps blurring, because neither his heart nor his body are invested, but he tries. He plays out the whole event, from the first brush of their lips to breaking away from her, seeing Blaine and Santana coming up the path...

Blaine's hair a mess, his cheeks flushed, his pupils dilated. The wrinkles where Santana had probably worried his blazer, the one button that he'd failed to fix, its hole hanging loose, almost debauched. 

His body is listening, now, so he goes a little faster, breathes a little deeper.

He thinks about what Blaine might have looked like with Santana all over him, thinks about his pink, swollen mouth giving way to hers, about his tongue trying to keep up, about her painted nails dragging down his trim chest.

_Oh, god, that's so much better._

Maybe he's just uptight about himself. Maybe thinking about _other_ couples is what he needs to do, at least for now, until he gets used to it.

He comes harder than he ever has, so suddenly that he's almost embarrassed.

Was it wrong, to think of Blaine and Santana that way? He feels conflicted, but the pleasure is still racing through his body, and he can't regret trying and succeeding, not when it usually takes him forever to have an orgasm that's barely a fraction as good as that one had been.

 

*

 

Brittany and Santana become so close, so fast that even Kurt is surprised. Santana is harsh and judgmental and oftentimes brutally honest, and as a result she can have Blaine laughing one moment and upset the next. By contrast, Brittany never seems to misunderstand her, never seems to be targeted by her in any negative way, and Kurt can't help but feel bad for Blaine. He is genuinely trying, but being himself doesn't much impress Santana, whereas all Brittany has to do is smile or turn her head the right way and Santana is putty in her hands.

One night after a date, with the house to themselves once their parents see them safely inside, Kurt invites Blaine to watch a movie with him instead of going to bed. It's late and Kurt doesn't think he'll make it through a whole movie, but Blaine looks upset and Kurt wants to cheer him up. He puts a romantic comedy on and makes them a bowl of popcorn.

Blaine requires some cajoling to open up. They're a third of the way into the movie when he blurts, “How does he do that?”

“Do what?” Kurt asks, munching popcorn.

“Make her just...melt like that, when he kisses her. Like she doesn't have a single thought in her head at that moment because kissing him is just _everything_.”

Kurt tilts his head. He isn't sure. Brittany never seems dissatisfied with him, because he lets her kiss him the way that she likes.

“I dunno. It is a movie. And they want you to think that her assigned partner is just _right_ for her, you know? So the kissing is all—whoa.”

Blaine sighs, and then smiles, just a little. “'Whoa', huh? Do you feel like that when you kiss Brittany?”

“Blaine,” Kurt says, a warning in his tone. “Come on. You know we aren't supposed to talk about...I mean, it just is what it is.”

“Okay, I'm really just trying to ask if you think that there's something wrong with me, then,” Blaine finally admits, chewing his bottom lip. “Santana knows what she's doing. She's made that clear. But when we're kissing I don't—I think I'm doing it all wrong. I think it's just me. Do you understand?”

“I did, too, in the beginning, I guess,” Kurt says, trying to be evasive. He's finding it hard to look Blaine in the eye, talking like this. He's never opened up to a foster brother or sister like this before. It almost feels as if they could simply be friends, no rules, no family, no worries.

“Did you learn what to do?” Blaine asks, looking nervous. “I'm kind of her last shot. I want to be better at it. Half the time I'm not sure if she likes me or hates me, much less if I'm good at—stuff.”

Kurt smiles at “stuff”. Blaine is so polite and careful, and Kurt likes the way that he wants to try for Santana, no matter how she treats him (though he wishes that Blaine would push back sometimes, it's not his job to tell Blaine what to do when it comes to Santana). He likes Blaine's loyalty and Blaine's heart, which have proven to be as honest as any that Kurt has encountered.

“I think I'm fine now,” he says. “Brittany never complains.” 

They watch some more of the movie and eat almost the whole bowl of popcorn. Kurt can feel Blaine's continued discomfort from across the couch, though, and has to stifle the urge to reach over and touch him in some kind of reassuring way. This, too, is a new feeling for Kurt—he is typically very hands off, both giving and receiving—but there's just something so easy about Blaine. 

When he comes back from getting them fresh cans of soda, his butt has barely touched the couch before Blaine blurts, “Willyouteachme?”

He blinks. “What?”

Blaine's flush darkens. “Will you teach me how to kiss? The right way?”

“Um.”

“I'm sorry. I know—no, it's okay. I'm sorry. Forget I asked.”

Kurt's mind feels simultaneously numb and overworked. The idea that two people of the same gender would even do that is beyond his immediate understanding of the world. What would be the point? What would kissing him teach Blaine? Blaine has to kiss girls that he might one day marry.

“I just,” Blaine continues, babbling nervously, “lips are lips, right? Nerve endings are nerve endings. I mean, it's like practicing how to throw a football with something football-shaped; not the same but close enough, right?”

Kurt realizes that his mouth is open. He closes it. He looks at Blaine. 

He's confused and excited—it would be so very wrong to do this, but his body is screaming _yes_. He can't help but be afraid, though. Any action outside of the norm in their world leads to punishment, and he's got a sort of okay thing going here. He doesn't want to screw it up. He's already been identified as a kind of deviant—a boy who had to be dragged kicking and screaming into dating. Why risk complicating matters with this?

But Blaine is staring at him with those big puppy dog eyes that are so hard to resist, and Blaine does have a point—it would just be practice, like kissing the crook of your elbow. It's not like it would be kissing, real kissing, not like it would accomplish or change anything. 

“I'm really not an expert,” he says, finally, barely able to get the words above a raspy whisper.

“I've never been able to get it right, though, and you and Brittany seem fine,” Blaine says, inching across the couch. “I really want to learn. For Santana.”

Kurt's pulse races faster as the space between them shrinks. Every inch that disappears feels like fingers on his skin, already there, already touching, already more than he can stand. It's so intense that it feels almost like a sickness. His stomach is lurching. His skin is hot and tight. He's _nervous_. And fairly sure that that is not what Blaine expects. Blaine thinks that he's capable or at the very least has more experience than Blaine does.

“Okay,” he breathes, lost in those eyes as Blaine's knee brushes his thigh.

The moment that he can feel Blaine's breath on his face, something inside of him shifts. By no means does he feel confident—but there's something simple about Blaine in his space, an acceptance that blossoms in him at the contact, as if the fabric of his being recognizes something in Blaine that no other rational part of him recognizes. He doesn't feel like squirming away or closing his eyes to escape, the way that he does when he and Brittany kiss. He just feels ready.

“H-how...do you start?” Blaine asks.

“Well, um,” Kurt says, wiping his palms off on his pants before lifting them, only to leave them hanging there, “it depends on what she likes. But if you've kissed her and let her lead a few times, you can usually tell.”

“Santana was kind of rough, the first time,” Blaine says. Kurt can't feel anything but the warm puff of his breath and the presence of his body, so different than Brittany's. “But the last couple of times she surprised me.” Blaine stares into Kurt's eyes, and then at his mouth. Kurt's belly jolts. “She started off soft, with a smile on her lips, and it was nice. I mean, it was less shocking, so I relaxed faster, too. I think she likes all kinds of kisses, actually. But my favorites so far were the soft ones.” Blaine inches closer. “The ones where she slid her fingers into my hair and kind of cradled my head and—just pecked at my lips until I started leaning into it.”

Kurt's heart slams against his chest. He can't think. Blaine's voice is hypnotic.

He doesn't say anything. He presses their mouths together, as light as air, and holds his breath. When he feels Blaine exhale, he wraps his fingers around the base of Blaine's skull and draws him forward into the kiss. He exhales. His pulse roars in his ears. His face and neck burn. He kisses Blaine again, softer and slower, stroking the back of his neck.

“Like that?” he asks, whispering.

“Like that,” Blaine answers, even quieter, his eyelashes sinking down, casting shadows over his cheeks in the flickering glow of the television's light.

“Kiss me back a little,” Kurt says, trying to stay above water. “Like I kissed you.” Blaine mimics the movement of Kurt's lips, making Kurt smile but not much else. “Relax. Just...don't try so hard.”

“I can't relax,” Blaine says, pulling away. “I just keep trying to picture Santana, but, I mean, you're not her, and I—crap. I really am horrible at this.”

“So don't picture her,” Kurt says. Blaine stares at him. “I mean, you _are_ kissing me. If you want to learn technical skills, you may have to apply them to me, you know?” He can't think over the noise of his pounding heart but he finds himself asking, regardless, “What would you do if we were doing this for real? What do you want to do?”

“Touch your face,” Blaine says. “Your jaw, your neck, your ears. Hold you closer. Control the kiss a little, I think. It feels weird when I just—yield.”

Kurt bites his lip. “Okay. So. Do that.”

“Are you sure?”

“If we're going to do this, we should do it right, don't you think?”

“S-sure.”

He has no idea what he's even saying. The words sound like a foreign language. 

But there's nothing foreign about Blaine's touch. It feels perfect, from the very first hesitant tap of those fingertips against his jaw on either side, to the digits sliding around his face and into the hair at his temples. When Blaine begins kissing him like this, holding him and working his lips instead of just letting Kurt kiss him, it feels like drowning and flying at the same time. 

Kissing Brittany has never, ever felt like this.

Deep down, Kurt has to admit that Blaine is probably better at it than he is. The way that Blaine moves against him, stroking his face without distracting either of them from the kisses that they're now sharing instead of exchanging, the way that Blaine's cheeks heat up against his, the faint scratch of his five o'clock shadow making the skin around Kurt's mouth tingle—he isn't sure whether it's Blaine or _them_ , but it's incredible.

He doesn't even realize that he's kissing Blaine eagerly, straining to get closer, to get more, until Blaine's hands wrap around his head and then his neck and he falls forward so far that he has to put a hand on Blaine's chest to stop himself from toppling them over. Blaine's heart slams against his palm.

He makes a throaty noise and Blaine pulls away.

“Did I hurt you?”

Kurt's eyelids rise and fall lazily. “No, no.”

“Was that better?”

Kurt wants to laugh and cry. “Oh, god, that was—great.”

“What you said, about not trying so hard and doing what I want to do instead of just being passive, that really helped,” Blaine says.

Kurt can't take his eyes off of the pulse hammering against Blaine's throat. “Oh. That's...good.”

“It makes sense. I mean, kissing takes two, doesn't it?”

“Um, yes. Yeah. Of course.”

“You're probably tired.”

“Wh-what?” He isn't thinking clearly.

“I mean, you usually go right to bed after dates. You didn't have to stay up and keep me company.”

“I wanted to. Really.”

Blaine wets his lips. “Thank you. You've helped me a lot since I moved in. I appreciate it so much.”

Kurt drags his eyes away from Blaine's kiss-puffy mouth. He did that. The knowledge is making him react in ways that he never has to kissing before, but the part of him that's tempted to offer further “lessons” is stifled by the fear that he feels. When Blaine offers to turn the movie off and clean up after their snack, he agrees all too readily.

 

*

 

It's none of Kurt's business, and he tries not to think about it at all. But he can't help noticing the new, easy sway in Santana's step and the way that her mouth quirks and her eyes dance with satisfaction on their dates that follow Kurt and Blaine's lesson. 

After a week or two of this newer, kinder Santana, she pats Kurt on the arm.

“He's not bad,” she says, smiling. “For a member of the Lollipop Guild.”

He would laugh if he weren't so messed up about it—he likes that Santana seems to be relaxing around Blaine, enjoying him more and making fun of him less. But he hasn't been able to move on from their evening on the couch. The memory of those kisses has haunted him in such a literal way—he can still feel Blaine's hands on his face and neck, Blaine's mouth pulling at his, Blaine's heartbeat against his palm. Time doesn't lessen the strength of it. Trying to forget doesn't make it sit any farther away. Letting it play out in his mind only encourages it to stay.

What's worst is thinking that he's the only one who is suffering. He doesn't think that he could stand confirmation of that, so he says nothing to Blaine. He doesn't ask Blaine about the moments that Blaine and Santana manage to steal for themselves after, even though he's morbidly curious about whether his instruction has helped or not. He just assumes that his job is done. 

 

*

 

One afternoon, Blaine comes home from swim practice in high spirits—they'd offered him a competition spot, and he's thrilled. He's changing from his pool clothes into a shirt and sweatpants in one corner of his room while Kurt sits on his bed, listening to him talk and watching him move and wondering what he looks like under the water, his body slicing through jewel-blue water.

Blaine flops down onto the bed beside him with a grunt, sprawls out on his belly, and smiles. “I am beat. Could you turn on some music and just...keep me company?”

“Sure.” 

Despite feeling generally confused, Kurt has no desire to leave Blaine's side. He looks adorable with his hair free of product and his body loose from exercise; there's an ease about him that is usually absent. The music relaxes him further, smooths out the lines on his forehead so well that Kurt thinks he's half-asleep already.

“Hey,” Blaine says, “could you scratch my back? The chlorine dried and I'm really itchy.” He rolls half-onto his opposite side and wriggles his shirt up and over his back. His waist is tiny compared to the width of his shoulders.

Kurt scratches his back with even, impersonal strokes, staring at the opposite wall instead of all that olive-toned flesh beneath his fingernails. Blaine's skin is warm, and does smell faintly of pool. Mostly, though, he just smells like _boy_ , and Kurt decides that he likes that very much. He closes his eyes, rests his head on the pillow beside Blaine's as the music plays and Blaine's body goes loose beneath his touch. He dozes for a while, himself, swimming in and out of consciousness, hardly noticing that his arm has just sort of drooped over Blaine's back.

Their parents aren't due home for an hour or so, still, when Kurt wakes up, squinting at his phone.

“Should start dinner,” he says, using the hand that he has on Blaine's naked back to shake him.

“Mm,” Blaine hums, rolling onto his side and putting his back against Kurt's chest. “Tired. Pizza?”

“Pizza is once a week only, and we ordered it on Tuesday.” Kurt tries not to feel where they are touching, but that's hard to do, especially when Blaine tugs Kurt's arm further around his waist.

“Chinese night should be a thing.”

Kurt laughs. “You can ask them, if you want.”

Blaine looks at him over his shoulder. “I bet you that I can convince them.”

“Oh, I'm not betting against that. You have powers.”

“For good or evil?”

“For terrible eating habits.”

Blaine laughs, shaking in his arms. “Aw, come on.”

“I like cooking. It relaxes me.”

“I like your cooking, so I'm definitely not going to argue with that,” Blaine says, smiling. He stares a moment too long, and Kurt's muscles twitch in early response. “Your cuddles are great, too.”

Kurt can't help but glance at Blaine's lips—so close, so pretty. “Yeah?”

“Can I ask you something?” When Kurt doesn't answer, he continues, “I don't want to embarrass you or anything. I just—Santana mentioned that you and Brittany have kept things kind of g-rated. I feel bad, now that I know. Asking you to teach me, implying that you were some kind of...guru, or something. I guess I put you on the spot?”

Kurt wets his lips. “I taught you everything I know.” He smiles. He is embarrassed, but not in the way that Blaine is thinking. “Quite literally.”

“So, I was thinking,” Blaine says, shifting onto his back, which essentially puts him right in the circle of Kurt's arms, facing him, “since we're both basically on the same page now, maybe...we can keep practicing? Just...what we did before, if that's okay. I don't feel ready for anything with Santana, but I figure it can't hurt to keep learning. It's just, you know, me and you, and we have so much more time to ourselves than we ever have with the girls.”

Kurt has to admit that the moment he hears the words _keep practicing_ , his brain more or less short-circuits. Blaine is lying against him, his shirt rucked up around his ribs, smelling like the fabric softener that Kurt uses to do the laundry and sweet, tangy boy, and all he can do is fall apart inside.

He wants to kiss Blaine. He doesn't know why. He just knows that he does.

“Sure,” he says, forcing the word out of his closed-up throat. 

The relief and interest that washes over Blaine's face almost draws a noise from Kurt. The arm that he wraps around Kurt's shoulders accomplishes what that glance could not, and Kurt doesn't have the time to be embarrassed about making a preemptive noise before he bends over Blaine and presses their mouths together. It's nothing like the first time, when he had actually attempted to teach Blaine something. This time it's just kissing—sweet, shallow, easy kissing that makes his body heat up.

That Blaine has been kissing Santana shows. He kisses more aggressively, now, as if he's had two different kinds of kissing to compare and has been doing it regularly. Kurt can only feel grateful, especially when Blaine's mouth opens under his. 

Surprised, he pulls away to breathe. “Whoa.”

“Sorry. Sorry, it's—habit, now.”

“Do you like it? Kissing with—tongues? Or is that her?”

Blaine's cheeks flush bright red. Kurt can't even imagine the look on his own face. “I like tongues. I like—that, yeah.”

Kurt groans and kisses Blaine, licking inside inexpertly. It's usually Brittany doing that to him, but doing it to Blaine feels natural. Silly and slightly unhygienic, but still natural.

“Mmph,” Blaine groans. The hand that he has near Kurt's neck crawls into the hair at the back of Kurt's head, tugging and digging in. “That's amazing.”

The praise sets Kurt's body ablaze. He can't explain what it does to him when he realizes that, practicing or no, his efforts are pleasing Blaine. He can almost hear the fizzle-pop in his brain when the reality hits home. 

They kiss for what seems like fifty seven minutes of the sixty that they have before their parents come home. Blaine is melted on the bed beneath him, their chests pinned together but everything below the waist sort of fishtailed apart, Blaine's hands in his hair and his arms beneath Blaine's shoulders and head on the mattress. When he stops to breathe, Blaine chases his mouth a whimper.

“Oh,” Blaine says, licking out over his swollen mouth, “sorry.”

Kurt doesn't let himself look at Blaine's gorgeous chest and slanted belly and hips. He doesn't let himself even think about looking any lower than that. “No, it's just, almost six.”

Their chests rise and fall heavily together, brushing and retreating. “Right. Right. Dinner.”

It hurts to stop. It hurts to separate. 

Is this what it should feel like when he's with Brittany?

 

*

 

It's little things, at first. 

Hip-checks at the kitchen counter when they're making dinner. Playful tossing of laundry from hand to hand while they're sorting it. Mock fights over the laptop, the television remote, the lint roller, the shoe polish, the salad bowl. Blaine's foot nudging his one too many times under the table during dinner to be considered accidental. On a date night, just once, they take separate cars, park in the lot of a restaurant, and while Brittany straddles Kurt's lap and kisses him, Santana does the same with Blaine, and Kurt spends more time staring into their car than at Brittany. For one brief moment, Blaine looks up at them in return, and Kurt stares at Santana writhing against Blaine and his stomach curls into unpleasant knots, but he also reacts in other ways, and Brittany notices and offers a purr of approval.

Kurt realizes that what they've done isn't something you can just forget.

Suddenly, the time that they get to themselves before their parents come home or when they go out is not enough. They don't kiss all the time, but they talk and listen to music and watch movies and exist together, absorbing presences and scents and the warmth that innocent body language brings. 

But it's never enough. They don't talk about the pull between them, or the fact that the time they spend with their girlfriends feels like the experiment and not the other way around. 

It has a lot to do with the physical stuff, Kurt has to admit. Yes, he likes Blaine. He likes everything about Blaine that has nothing to do with his body or looks. But it's the body and the looks and his access to them that makes the situation unbearable. When they bake together and Blaine licks frosting or whipped cream off of his fingers or lips it's like torture. As they become used to each other domestically, it's other things: crossing paths on the way to the shower, robes hastily thrown over water-freckled skin, wet hair clinging, Blaine coming home from after-school activities glowing and exuberant (whether sports or choir, it's the same showmanship frenzy) and offering spontaneous hugs, listening to him sing and wanting to just roll in how talented he is (and then they sing together, and the awe on Blaine's face makes his entire being cry out, and everything is right, right, right).

Their parents don't notice. Kurt isn't surprised—as long as they get good grades, are there when they are expected to be, do their chores, and date their girlfriends, their parents consider the job done.

But a part of him is dying to know how Blaine feels. Does he see the situation the way that Kurt does? Does he ache for every brush, every glance, every kiss, or is it merely just an enjoyable way to pass the time when the opportunity presents itself? He wouldn't be surprised if Blaine felt that way. Kurt has been different all of his life; this would just be one more way in which he was and another boy wasn't.

And he doesn't need to be reminded that it's something they can't talk about openly, so he guesses that the only way to approach it is to just do it. Let it happen and see what happens. They have it down to a science, when and where they can and can't, and they are lucky to have more privacy than most. 

One evening, after about a week of no prolonged contact, Blaine comes to his bedroom after their parents go out for the evening, tapping his knuckles on the door jamb. He's smiling and wearing a lovely cardigan and bow tie and jeans that fit him alarmingly well, and Kurt knows without needing confirmation that he had taken care with his outfit to impress Kurt at a glance.

He flushes with the pleasure of it, and puts his textbook aside. “Hey.”

“Hey.” Blaine steps inside, rubbing his left arm with his right hand. “So I wanted to ask your opinion on these bow ties...”

All of the air leaves Kurt's lungs. 

Blaine is carrying five ties, which he spreads out on Kurt's bed. They're all lovely—though Kurt doesn't think the one with the floral pattern does Blaine's shirt justice—but he can't really focus on them. Blaine cycles through each choice and when Kurt picks one he puts it on. Kurt adjusts it with trembling fingers. Blaine tilts his chin up. 

For a moment, it's as if things are completely normal, as if Kurt will just drop his hands and smile and say “that one, Blaine”, and Blaine will smile and nod. But when Kurt shifts his hands away, Blaine's own come up to grasp them. Kurt blinks. Blaine's eyes meet his.

“Oh,” he says, just before Blaine leans in to kiss him. Blaine sways back, inhales, and then kisses him again, twisting their fingers together. The combination makes Kurt dizzy. Each kiss is hungrier than the last, and then Blaine is crawling on top of him and pressing him down into the bed, their laced hands somewhere above Kurt's head.

They've never done this without talking about it, and even when they have decided to full-on make out, Blaine has never just climbed on top of him like that.

And then Blaine kisses the corner of his mouth. The dimple on his chin. His jaw. Beneath his jaw. His neck. All the way to his ear and below it—

“Oh my god,” Kurt moans.

“Does that feel good?”

“Oh my _god_.”

Blaine kisses that spot, over and over, until Kurt is a wriggling mess underneath him, huffing breath like he's starving for it and trying not to lose his mind. He thinks he can't take any more, and then Blaine opens his mouth over the spot and nips it with his teeth and sucks it in between his lips and Kurt's hips buck, meeting the resistance of Blaine's thigh.

Kurt's eyes snap open. “Whoa, whoa, whoa.”

Blaine stops. He breathes heavily against Kurt's neck. “Oh. Wow.”

“That's, ha, different,” Kurt says, and it feels so lame, but those are the words that come spilling out when he opens his mouth. Blaine is _on top of him_ , against him, around him, and he can't think.

“Understatement,” Blaine says, untangling their fingers only to re-tangle them, pressing Kurt's hands into the pillows beneath his head. “I have a neck thing, I think.”

“Have—have you and Santana, um, done more?” Kurt asks.

“We kind of, like, rubbed?” Blaine says, blushing. “But not—not really.”

They had long ago agreed that talking about their experiences with the girls was sort of necessary to facilitate their practices, and when Kurt had guiltily mentioned these chats to Brittany she'd giggled and asked Kurt if he thought that she and Santana didn't talk about them and what they did, like, all of the time? So Kurt doesn't feel like he's invading anyone's privacy having this conversation. He just feels way too much, otherwise.

Blaine lowers himself down on top of Kurt again. “Is this okay?”

“Yeah,” Kurt breathes, shaking, his hands sweating in Blaine's grip. 

It's kind of terrifying. It's also the most amazing thing that Kurt has ever felt.

Blaine kisses him and rocks their bodies together. The rhythmic grind of their pelvises feels as natural as breathing, and even when Kurt feels himself begin to react in that way, he's not afraid. He's just overwhelmed. Blaine makes the most deliciously desperate noises into his mouth, and when Kurt shifts to get them better aligned, Blaine's fingers spasm around his, and he savors the reaction. He made Blaine shudder and moan. This is actually working, the way that it never has with girls. 

This is the way that it's supposed to feel, Kurt realizes, in both horror and elation.

He's so distracted by the thought that he doesn't realize how close he is until he's almost there.

“W-wait,” he says, into the humid inch between their friction-burned mouths. “I—um.”

“It's okay,” Blaine says, “me too. Sorry.”

“Stop apologizing, dummy. I just don't want to mess my clothes.”

The bridge of Blaine's nose prickles with blood. “We should stop.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“You're—well, we're just—we seem to be very good at that. I wasn't ready for how fast we got there.”

Kurt clears his throat. “I guess.” He wants to be smarter, but he's throbbing in his jeans and it's probably the most distracting thing that he's ever felt. It doesn’t help when Blaine reaches up, undoes his bow tie, and strips it off as if he can't breathe.

“I do like this one,” he says, fingering the cloth without breaking longing eye contact. “Thank you.”

 

*

 

It's not that sex is the issue. Even though Kurt hasn't gone past making out with Brittany, he knows that most orphan couples have sex as part of their courtship phase. As long as pregnancy and diseases are avoided, there's no chance of them getting in trouble. Sex is not against the law. It's just—never been a temptation with Brittany, unless you count the times when Kurt has fantasized to intentionally work himself up for her gratification. She's tried several times to get his clothes off, but he's always shied away, and she is very good at accepting the rejection without making it awkward for either of them.

Blaine hasn't said anything about he and Santana, but Kurt would like to think that if they did do it, Blaine would tell him. He's curious—as aroused by the image of Blaine in that situation as he is hopelessly and worryingly jealous. He knows how good it is between he and Blaine—their bodies, at least—and it drives him crazy that Blaine might have an equal if not better connection with Santana.

This worry is very distant, however, when he and Blaine are kissing. They both initiate fairly equally, and once the initial, breathless boundary is crossed, they don't hold back. They've made out lying down, standing, sitting—bodies together or apart, hands firmly planted in safe places or borderline spots or off entirely. When they have the house to themselves, they don't dance around the desire anymore—they just take advantage of the time as they both so clearly want to do.

Home is the only safe place for the private moments that they share, but Kurt has to admit that there are times at school when he would happily sacrifice a limb or an organ to be able to drag Blaine into a secluded corner or closet and kiss him until neither of them can breathe. Blaine is so on at school, whether it's performing in the school play or swimming laps or giving presentations in class, and Kurt is drawn to his enthusiasm and sweetness pretty much every moment of every day that they share.

He has no idea what would happen if they were caught—boys kissing boys or girls kissing girls is something that is not only forbidden, but so taboo that it's not even acknowledged as something that people do. Even when Kurt was in his most rebellious phase between the ages of thirteen and fifteen, he was simply described to be “resistant” to dating; no one had even suggested that he might like boys instead. And he had been smart enough to keep his mouth shut, smart enough to not say “a girl has never made me feeling anything like that”, smart enough to not glance at boys and wonder because he hadn't even wanted to _think_ outside of that box for fear of discovering something that he could never put back. Once he'd realized that, in order to have any kind of a life, he'd have to one day marry a girl he had given up wondering what was missing and accepted people's expectations.

But this—this is happening. He can't stop it. He doesn't want to stop it.

 

*

 

“I'm just saying that raspberry is clearly superior to lemon, in this case,” Blaine says, waving his spoon.

“Not if I want to top the donuts with thyme,” Kurt says, throwing a sprig of the herb at Blaine across the island.

“Walnuts!”

“Thyme!”

“Walnuts!”

“Oh my _god_ you are _ridiculous_.”

Blaine grins, circles the island, and drops half of a shelled walnut down the back of Kurt's shirt. Kurt shrieks and flails and tries to get it out, and when he finally does he chases Blaine around the kitchen. He catches Blaine, laughing, and pins him to the counter near the sink.

“You have powdered sugar on your polo,” Kurt says.

“Oh, crap.”

When Blaine looks down, Kurt uses the distraction to cup his face and kiss him. “Made ya look.”

Blaine blinks, looking surprised but pleased, and the sultry little curl that his mouth adapts when Kurt leans in to kiss him a second time makes Kurt's knees weak. They wobble even harder when Blaine hoists himself up to sit on the counter within the circle of Kurt's arms. 

He brackets Kurt's waist with his thighs, puts his fingers in Kurt's hair, and kisses him. “You taste like lemon glaze.”

“I thought you preferred raspberry frosting,” Kurt whispers against Blaine's lips. He can feel the heat on Blaine's cheeks grow hotter.

“Lemon and raspberry go together very well,” Blaine says, licking at the seam of Kurt's mouth. The casual playfulness of this interaction excites every part of Kurt.

It escalates quickly, as it always does, requiring only a minute or two of kissing for Blaine to start making noises, for Kurt to let his hands fall to Blaine's waist and hold on as Blaine's fingers card through his hair and fold around the back of his neck. Kurt has learned to let his body move as it desires—it's never a surprise anymore when they line up just right. They're professionals at ignoring what happens next, but that doesn't mean they don't enjoy getting there.

Kurt isn't prepared, though, when Blaine's calves cross over his ass and pull him in.

Have things progressed between Blaine and Santana? He certainly seems more confident.

Kurt runs his fingertips down the outside of Blaine's thighs just to feel the tight, flexing muscles there, but he ends up hooking his fingers behind Blaine's knees and hauling him closer, too. Blaine whimpers, tilts his head aside to breathe, and Kurt kisses his neck, all the way down to the collar of his shirt.

“K-Kurt,” Blaine moans. Kurt freezes. Hearing his name on Blaine's lips in that tone... “God, don't stop.” Blaine shifts around. “Please.”

 _This has nothing to do with the girls_ , Kurt realizes. He knows for sure that he isn't thinking of Brittany. And if Blaine is moaning his name, Blaine can't be thinking of Santana, either, at least not in this moment.

_Crap. Crap crap crap._

“The oil...”

Blaine blinks at him. “Oh. Damn. Yeah, yeah, I—sorry.”

That and the fact that Kurt is about three seconds away from freaking out. He needs to breathe and put some space in between them before he finds himself permanently attached.

His head spins through dessert prep and dinner, and after the clean-up is done he goes up to his room without saying a word to their parents or Blaine. He puts in his headphones, turns on the _Wicked_ soundtrack, and tries to drown his fears in singing under his breath.

The songs only make him feel bolder.

 

*

 

It doesn't take Brittany long to figure it out, which doesn't surprise Kurt in the slightest. 

She springs it on him one night, though, her long hair a curtain around their faces as she whispers, “It's okay. You can think about whatever you want. That's what I do.”

He wonders what she thinks about. He desperately wants to know. He cares about her and wants to be her friend, at least. But she doesn't offer anything else, just kisses him until he closes his eyes again. And he takes her advice. 

This time, he doesn't even pretend: he thinks about Blaine. About Blaine's mouth on his. About Blaine's strong, lean body, rubbing against his. He thinks about Blaine's wet mouth and, most of all, he thinks about Blaine moaning his name, about how desperate he'd sounded.

“That's better,” Brittany says, breathing faster against his ear as she insinuates one strong, heavy thigh between his legs.

“Oh, oh, okay,” he chants, tensing up.

She hauls his leg around her hip and begins grinding against him. It feels good, but only if he pretends she's someone else, and that just doesn't feel right, even though she had told him to do it. 

The thing is, Brittany knows exactly what she's doing, and Kurt has been holding back with Blaine for so long that he's desperate enough to let it happen. He thinks about it, about how easy it would be to close his eyes and imagine Blaine there where she is, about how he's already hard enough to get going if he really tried, and about how maybe giving him an orgasm would make her feel good, maybe even justify all of the patience she's shown him.

But he can't, in the end. He just can't. The guilt and the misplacement of his desire make him sick. He feels as if he's disrespecting himself and her in brand new ways.

“Brit,” he says, into her neck, “Brit, stop.”

“Okay.”

“This is nice, and I appreciate it, so much.”

She sighs. “But?”

“You and I both know this isn't—we're not here, with each other, not really. Right?”

“Well, duh,” she says.

He frowns.

“I'm not stupid. And you and me, we share powers, remember? I know that you love Blaine and you know that I love Santana. I thought you were cool about that. 'Cause, like, we have to do this, and it's fun, not gonna lie, you're super hot, but...I'm kind of all about her lady kisses right now, so.”

Kurt sits up, his face glowing red. “Wh-what?”

She tilts her head. “Is this you playing dumb, like, testing me, because I really hate when people do that.”

“No,” he says, “no, not at all.”

“Didn't Blaine tell you?”

“Tell me what?”

“Oh. Oh, oops.”

“Brittany, what didn't Blaine tell me?”

“Blaine told Santana that he only likes boys. So Santana said that since she only likes girls—namely me, holla—and he only likes boys, he would marry her and then you would marry me and we could share a house and be like one big happy family without getting in trouble. I get my lady time and you get—okay, I'm not sure what exactly hobbits and elves do together, but—you're both kind of magical, so I guess it'll be okay.”

Kurt feels like throwing up. “Oh my god, Brit, stop, just. Blaine hasn't said anything about this to me. At all.”

“Oh,” she hums, playing with a strand of her hair. Her eyes are kind and concerned. “Oh. Are you sure he didn't? It could have been a song.”

“I'm sure.”

And furious.

“Look, I need to get home,” he says. It's one of he and Brittany's rare single date nights, and he knows for a fact that Blaine should be home. “I need to talk to him.”

She smiles. “Okay, cutie. Give me a kiss. Don't yell! Yelling is mean.”

He pecks her lips, and for the first time it doesn't feel fake. “Thanks.”

 

*

 

Kurt's resolve dies a spectacular and instant death when he finds Blaine waiting for him on his bed, wearing nothing but a pair of boxer-briefs and a smile. He knows that he should confront Blaine then and there, but all that he manages to do is open his mouth and let out a sort of garbled squawk.

“Hey,” Blaine says, sitting up on his knees.

Kurt stares at the tight underwear straining against the bulge behind them. His mouth goes wet and his cock twitches and his skin prickles. There's no longer any doubt about what gets him going. But he wants to be mad; Blaine has known himself all along, has understood this part of himself and presumably Kurt all along, and had pretended to initiate “kiss practice” just to—to what? He isn't using Kurt. It can't be that simple. Or maybe it is? But Kurt also wants something for himself before all of this explodes and, in the end, he's just too weak to resist.

He kneels on the bed. He lets his eyes rake over Blaine's body. “How did you know I was coming home?”

“I was planning on waiting, actually. You're early.” He lifts his hands to Kurt's shirt, and begins popping its buttons, one by one, his face flushed dark. “I thought after being with Brit you might be feeling a little...antsy?” He licks his bottom lip as he undoes the last button on Kurt's shirt and tugs the material free of the waistband of Kurt's pants. He slides his hands up Kurt's chest and over his shoulders, pushing the button-down off. 

Kurt, shaking, feels his nipples harden. “And what did you plan to do about that?”

He doesn't feel the need to evade, now that he knows what he knows.

“Whatever you wanted,” Blaine says, all doe eyes and hot fingertips and that sweet, tight body, on full display just for Kurt. “But I was hoping you would let me make you come. I—I really, really want to.”

They've never talked about it like this, and Kurt feels unsettled. But at the same time, he isn't surprised—they haven't used the words “practice” or “experiment” in a long time, and their intimacy has grown as natural and spontaneous as any other. Maybe that had simply been Blaine's way of telling him. It's not enough, not for Kurt, but for the next few hours...

He thinks about all of the acts that Brittany had so enthusiastically pitched as possibilities for them before she'd realized he wasn't interested in her in that way. He knows that if he had to do anything like that tonight he'd fumble, make a fool of himself, but what if Blaine has experience with boys that he has yet to confess to? Maybe Blaine knows what he's doing. Thinking about that, about Blaine's touch being sure of itself, about lying back and letting Blaine _work_ his body...

He climbs onto his knees, and Blaine does the same. He takes the hem of his undershirt in hand and tugs it up and off, enjoying the way that Blaine's breath hitches when his bare chest is revealed. He's nervous beyond explanation, but he reaches down for his belt without allowing himself to hesitate.

Blaine's hands stop him. “Let me.”

The way that it feels, letting another boy pluck his belt open and undo the button and zipper on his pants...he can hardly breathe. When Blaine sinks his hands down the back of his pants, cups his ass and pushes the fabric down, it's all that he can do to step out of them without losing it completely.

“I don't know what to do,” he says, breathing fast. Blaine's fingers flatten against and slide down and over his hip bones.

“I know what I _want_ to do,” Blaine says, “is that enough?”

“I guess,” Kurt says, smiling, and then half-choking when the space between their bodies disappears. Blaine kisses him, a little sip of a gesture that leaves him wanting more.

“You are so hot,” Blaine whispers, rubbing their erections together. “I've been like this for hours, just waiting for you to come home. Thinking about you. Wanting you.”

_When did this become us? Why can't I stay angry with you? Why don't I care?_

Kurt lets out a noise when Blaine pushes him down onto his back. “Do we have time?”

“They're having dinner after the movie,” Blaine says, but his attention is on Kurt's naked skin and not the question. He skims Kurt's torso with his hands. When his fingers reach Kurt's underwear's waistband, he stops, breathing heavily. “I want to—I want to suck you.” Kurt whimpers. “May I?” Blaine stares at him from beneath those lush eyelashes. “Please?” When Kurt hesitates, Blaine kisses his collarbone. His nipple. His sternum. His belly. “Please. Please, let me do it.” His hip. His thigh. His inner thigh. His groin.

Kurt, his chest and belly heaving, clutches the blanket beneath his hands like a lifeline. “I won't—I'll come so fast if you do that.” He had no idea that it was possible to be this close to orgasm without even being touched, but he's sure that all it would take would be the purse of that mouth for it to be over.

“I don't care,” Blaine says, nuzzling his balls, breathing in deeply. “I just want to make you feel good.”

“O-okay.”

Blaine grasps the elastic waistband of his underwear, kissing revealed skin as he peels them down. Kurt's erection twitches left and flops back, along the ridge of his hip bone, and Blaine groans, presses his cheek to it before running his parted lips up the shaft. When he reaches the tip he kisses it, then licks it, then sucks it into his mouth without hesitation.

“Oh, my god,” Kurt says, his fingers clenching into fists. 

He can't even look without the threat of coming instantly. He gives the view a side eye, and when even that's too much he closes his eyes and tries to breathe through the urge to let go.

It's noisy and wet and Blaine moans through it, fumbling, his teeth and tongue sloppy, his technique unsure—he can't have done this before—but none of that matters. A boy is bobbing up and down on his cock like it's candy, and even though Kurt needs more—wants more—he can't bear to stop now.

When Blaine replaces his mouth with his hand and begins stroking his spit-sticky cock, he barely gets out a warning groan before he comes, sluggish and messy, all over Blaine's cheek and jaw.

“Oh, no. Oh god I'm sorry,” he breathes, panting. There's mess on his jerking belly and he stares at it, enthralled and embarrassed.

Blaine smiles. “It's okay.” He takes the tissue that Kurt hands him and uses it to clean them up.

Post-orgasm, everything seems less urgent. Kurt shivers. He wants to be held. He wants to be alone. He can't decide what to do with his naked limbs, or what he should say. He doesn't want to touch Blaine—he's too caught up in his own thoughts for that. He had had such a clear plan, storming home after learning what he had from Brittany, and now it's a garbled mess in his head, mixed up in a pretty awful way with the intense pleasure that he'd just experienced.

Blaine senses his mood. He tugs a pillow into his lap and hugs it, as if to put some kind of barrier between them. Kurt stares at him.

“I, um,” Blaine says, “I guess we should talk?”

Kurt bites his lip. He sits up slowly, adjusting his underwear back into place.

And the front door slams. 

“Shit,” he hisses. “Get to your room.”

“Damn. I—okay. Later. When they go to sleep.” Blaine kisses the corner of his mouth before rushing to leave.

Kurt doesn't know what to do with the solitude. Their parents don't settle down until much later, so the conversation that they intend to have never happens. He goes to school the next day in a daze, not sure what to do now that his anger has lost its momentum.

 

*

 

Apparently what he's decided to do is let his hormones fight the good fight, because during his extended Saturday morning bath routine, he walks past Blaine's room with a towel wrapped around his waist instead of his usual robe, and he can almost _feel_ Blaine's eyes latch on to and follow him. He's only counted to thirty seven by the time that the door to the bathroom creaks open and then shuts (lock snicking into place) behind him (he'd gone to his room and back for a bottle of moisturizer, just to make sure that Blaine had noticed him).

He holds his breath, anticipation making the skin on his arms break out in goosebumps. Blaine's hands curl around his hips and he closes his eyes, savoring the warmth and weight of them. He waits for Blaine to say something, but all Blaine does is begin kiss-licking the water off of his shoulders.

“Morning,” he breathes, high-pitched and breathy.

Blaine's lips dance in between his shoulder blades. Blaine makes sound of pleasure. “Morning.”

“They're still home,” he says, more to tease than reprimand.

“Which you knew when you let this towel ride so low,” Blaine says, and Kurt can feel the smile on Blaine's lips as they drag down the knobs of his spine. 

He can't deny that any more than he can stop himself from shivering as Blaine's mouth drags along his skin. He doesn't open his eyes. 

Until Blaine begins to sink down to his knees and takes Kurt's towel with him.

“Wh-what are you doing?” he asks, his voice cracking.

Blaine's tongue laps at the small of his back. “Tasting.”

“I can feel that.” He can't _breathe_. “Blaine.”

“Mm?”

Blaine's mouth touches his sacrum, and he swallows a whine. “Has Santana taught you dirty things?”

“She has quite the sexual encyclopedia in her head,” Blaine says, nuzzling his face against Kurt's left cheek. “But if you're worried about hands-on instruction...no. She just talks. A lot. When we're together. To excite me, you know.”

Kurt has spent every waking—and some not-waking—moment in between that first blowjob and now thinking about Blaine being _excited_. Which is more or less the reason why he isn't paying attention right now and nearly jumps out of his skin when Blaine kisses down the crack of his ass.

“Want to kiss every inch of your body,” Blaine says, pitching his voice low so that it doesn't carry, “want to be inside of you.”

It's a good thing that their girlfriends know what the heck they're doing and have educated them in round-about ways, because if not for that, Kurt would have no idea what Blaine even means when he says that. But he does know, and the words rip up his spine and light his nerve endings on fire.

“Oh my god,” he whines, his hands grasping the ceramic sink as his knees wobble. “Oh my god, oh my god, Blaine.”

He's thought about this, fantasized about it since the moment that they'd begun touching, but he hadn't pictured it happening in his bathroom with his parents one floor down and his bath towel around his ankles. They could hear, if Kurt were loud enough. Hear Blaine's mouth sucking kisses into his skin. Hear his accelerated breathing that's almost a wheeze because he's trying overly hard to control it. 

He doesn't even have the attention span to be self-conscious—Blaine's lips are pecking his asshole and it feels so good that he could cry. He can't stop shaking, and the muscles in his legs are threatening to give up on him entirely. He pants into his forearm, bent over the bowl of the sink.

“You have to be quiet,” Blaine says, kissing kissing kissing kissing, spreading him open, “or I'll need to stop.” Kurt's pelvis wants to snap back, to drive Blaine's face deeper. “More?”

“Yeah, _yeah_.”

Blaine hums into the next kiss, kneading Kurt's cheeks as he holds them apart. The first long, luxurious lick makes Kurt's knees wobble again, and he grips the sink tighter and puts more of his weight on it to stay upright as Blaine continues lapping over and around the wrinkle of his hole. Warmth spreads through his body. He's not hard, but that doesn't seem to matter. Being kissed there feels so good, creates a needy itch inside of him that he can't wait to have scratched.

His cock stiffens slowly without direct stimulation, minute by minute as the dense silence in the house deepens all around them, as they both try to stay silent. Blaine's thumbs start edging in, and finally begin circling Kurt's winking pucker. There's a bottle of lotion on a shelf beneath the sink and he uncaps it, coats his finger and strokes Kurt from the top to the very bottom of his crack.

“Turn around?” Blaine asks, his voice wrecked.

“Hngh?”

“Better angle, and—I want to see you.”

“Oh.”

It's about eight times harder to just let go and feel facing Blaine on his knees, his mouth scrubbed pink from licking at Kurt and his eyes wide with arousal. When he strokes his lotion-slick hands up and down Kurt's hips, Kurt has to suppress the urge to push into his mouth and just _use_ him.

“Lift your leg? Like, balance your foot on the toilet?” Blaine asks.

Embarrassed and too turned on to care, Kurt does as Blaine asks. His cock and balls sway between his legs, and the sticky, sensitive, open place between his cheeks throbs.

“Have you ever—put something inside?” Blaine asks, dialing two fingertips side by side in circles over Kurt's hole.

“No,” Kurt gasps, clasping the sink like a lifeline. “No, oh, god, please, d-do it.”

Blaine kisses up the shaft of his bobbing cock and presses the pad of his middle finger in and up, hooking it and then gently pushing it into Kurt's ass.

“Oh,” Kurt moans, shaking, his legs trembling dangerously. “Oh, oh, ah!”

“Shh, sweetheart, shh,” Blaine croons, working the single digit in and out, twisting it until Kurt is used to it, ticklish and strange and making him feel so open. “Tell me if it's uncomfortable.”

It's many things, but uncomfortable is not one of them. It's an odd feeling, but it's also perfect in so many other ways. It feels like something that Kurt wants but his body has no experience receiving—but Blaine is careful and patient, stops at two fingers, and goes slowly enough to figure out the angle and speed that make Kurt breathe fast and harsh through his nostrils.

His cock jumps in time with Blaine's fingers screwing inside, leaks clear fluid down the shaft that Blaine licks up like a cat let at the cream. Finally, when the friction of two fingers has lost its edge, Blaine swallows Kurt's cock down, pushes his fingers in deep, up and forward. Kurt's belly heaves. He's close, and the pressure just there is making everything feel involuntary and inevitably urgent.

“I'm going to come,” he whispers, clutching Blaine's shoulder.

Blaine hums around his cock and works his fingers faster. Kurt feels helpless as the orgasm rises and broken as it crests, making his whole body shudder. White pops behind his eyelids. He can't breathe because he's forcing himself not to because if he does he's going to make noises and he can't do that.

He slumps down onto the edge of the sink when it's over, reaching for Blaine blindly. They kiss as if the edge hasn't been taken off at all, hungry and rough.

“When are you going to let me touch you, huh?” he asks, without thinking about it, digging his fingers into the soft spots below Blaine's hips. He puts his mouth on Blaine's neck, trying to focus through the shaking in his muscles and the orgasm-dizzy shiver of disconnection making his head feel as if it isn't connected to the rest of his body.

“Time,” Blaine breathes, grasping his biceps. “Privacy. I just—I see you and I lose my mind.”

Kurt presses his naked hip to Blaine's cock. “You didn't even let me see last time.”

“Oh, god, we have to go down to breakfast.”

Kurt nips at Blaine's thickly muscled shoulder, and then the rise of his collarbone. He grasps Blaine's ass and pulls him in, ruts the meat of his thigh against Blaine's erection. “I'm already going to have to wash up again before I go, so what's the harm in making me a little messier?” Blaine's ass churns under his hand as his hips and waist writhe in desperate circles, driving his cock up and down Kurt's thigh.

“Are you serious?”

Kurt kisses Blaine's mouth, growling, “Come on.” 

He dives in, letting it be dirty from the first thrust, not thinking about how silly he might seem or sound in his inexperience, and Blaine responds instantly, grabbing onto him and rocking against his leg with wrecked hitches of breath that die against Kurt's shoulder.

“Oh my god, yeah,” Blaine moans.

Kurt bites at Blaine's upper arm and fumbles for the waistband of Blaine's boxer-briefs, shoving them down. “I can still feel your fingers in me.”

“Kurt—”

“I want to do that again. I want your—I want it all the way. Not like this. On a bed. With you between my legs. Want to do it right.”

“Oh my god, oh my god.”

Kurt wraps his hand around Blaine's cock, holding it, letting Blaine drive it through the circle of his fist. “Shh. You're—too loud. Shh, shh, just, come, come on me.”

Blaine spurts all over his hand, thigh, and hip, whimpering into the curve of his throat to muffle the sound. He's undone afterward, clutching Kurt's body against his, little sobs cresting in his throat as he tries to make quieter sounds.

They share a warm, damp towel, and Kurt can't stop shaking. It had felt amazing, of course, but it's more than that—it's as if every time they're close another delicate tendril forms between them, tying them closer together and making it harder for him to think about the conversation that they still need to have. He's no less upset about Blaine not being honest with him, going behind his back and discussing intimate things about them with Santana and not him.

But Blaine has a point about time and privacy, and Kurt has been no more responsible about prioritizing communication over sex than he has thus far, so who is he to judge?

It can wait another day.

 

*

 

The next double date that they go on is at Brittany's house. Her foster family is incredibly lenient, apparently, because they're allowed to go down to the finished basement without a warning.

Kurt and Blaine take one side and Brittany and Santana the other, with the intention of switching halfway through the night. Kurt has a lot of questions and suspects that everyone is finally ready to talk, but he's surprised when they swap and Santana crosses the room to join him instead of Brittany, who takes Blaine's hand and leads him upstairs to get them food and drinks.

“If you hurt him I will break your delicate elven fingers,” Santana says, without preamble.

“Well,” Kurt says, “haven't we come a long way from uninspired height jokes.”

“I'm serious, Hummel. He's a lovesick puppy, which I normally find, you know, pretty gross, but he's a good guy and he's helping me out, and that counts in my book.”

“Maybe he should have mentioned this to me before we started—” Kurt stops with a sigh.

She narrows her eyes. “He's scared. Give him a break.”

When he's cuddled up in Brittany's lap later, she says, “Unicorns will only sing when they live in herds, Kurt.”

There's a strange, majestic depth to that statement, and Kurt finds himself unable to disagree.

When they switch again, Blaine approaches him with his hands shoved in the pockets of his chinos, a blush on his cheeks and his bottom lip between his teeth. Kurt isn't sure whether the blush is from nervousness or Santana groping him, but he guesses that it doesn't matter. That face is his undoing.

Behind Blaine, Brittany is sitting on Santana's lap, nuzzling their noses together, their hand joined, and looking as besotted as either of them ever have. Kurt shivers. It's the first time that they haven't hidden the reality between them, and it makes him feel sick and elated at the same time.

They aren't pretending, and now it's his turn.

“I'm sorry,” Blaine says, sitting on his calves beside Kurt on the couch.

Kurt exhales. “Why didn't you say something?”

“I—I'm not sure. At first, it was just easier to talk to Santana because I—I cared more about what you thought than what she did, and she didn't keep her and Brit a secret from me, so I trusted her to keep mine. But I didn't know that she was going to tell Brit _everything_. And by then it was too late to take it back.” He fidgets, his bottom lip out, his eyes on the hem of his pants around his bare ankles. “I wanted to be sure about how you felt, but I could never figure out how to ask. And that night, Brittany texted me and told me she had spilled to you and you were coming home. But I was already in your bed.” He bites at the corner of his mouth. “So I stayed, and made my move, and you—you let me. I was confused and worried but I just—wanted you.”

Kurt's throat is tight and dry. He reaches out, taps his fingers against Blaine's wrist, an aborted attempt at a grasp, and then he just gives in, dragging Blaine's hand into his lap by its hairy, bony underside. He intends to be sharp, to be angry, but when he opens his mouth tears spring to his eyes and he finds himself hauling Blaine into his lap instead.

“You are so stupid,” he breathes, wrapping his arms around Blaine. “We are so stupid.”

“No one can ever know,” Blaine says, breathless with fear. “I don't—I can't lose you.”

Kurt can't deal with that right now, so instead he says, “So you told Santana you'd marry her.”

“It's an idea,” Blaine says, hesitating. “I mean—she's at the end of the line. You and Brit like each other and have been doing well enough with dating to make a proposal convincing. If I marry Santana and you marry Brit, we could live together. We're performers, we all want to go to New York, and living in New York is expensive; sharing rent would make sense, and if we're legally married _before_ we go, it'll make it even easier.” He turns his hands in Kurt's, gripping Kurt's fingers. “It would be a chance for us to get some freedom in a place we want to be, anyway, and...be together, see if it works out.” His forehead wrinkles. “Is that something that you—you might like? With me? I would—I wouldn't ask if we weren't so close to graduation and needing to decide, but we're running out of time.”

“I am crazy about you,” Kurt says, torn and floundering, “but I'm terrified.”

“I know,” Blaine says, inching closer, if that's even possible considering how plastered together they already are. “God, I know, but...well, the girls are being really, amazingly brave, and I think if we stick with them, we'll be okay. We don't have to be—Kurt, we can just be family, or friends, if it doesn't turn out, you know? I just—I think we could keep each other safe and happy, romance or no romance.”

“Blaine Anderson,” Kurt says, smiling and breathless through a sheen of tears, “there had better be romance, and plenty of it.”

Blaine giggles—actually giggles, high-pitched and overwhelmed—and kisses Kurt, clasping his face on either side. 

Over Blaine's shoulder, Kurt sees Brittany giving them double thumbs-up, her eyes wide and her teeth showing, and he feels something inside of him let loose, and realizes that it's hope. Realizes that hope feels a lot like Blaine's lips on his, like the wild emotion in Blaine's eyes. It even feels like Brittany and Santana lost in each other, happy and full of anticipation for the future for the first time in their lives. 

They'll savor that hope together, and try. He can't imagine anything less.


End file.
